The six o'clock bread

I moved in in January. The first dawn I blamed some sleepless neighbour; the second, a badly placed industrial oven; the third, I went down in my pyjamas with a printed plan of the building. Commercial units: an accountancy firm and an empty storeroom. No bakery. The smell, meanwhile, climbed the staircase like someone with a settled habit.

I asked the man on the second floor, who has lived here for forty years. "Ah, that's Vidal's Bakery," he said. "It closed in '89." He said it just like that, without mystery, the way you explain that the lift is slow.

"And so?"

"The building remembers." He shrugged. "At first you notice it a lot. Then you stop smelling it: it just smells like home. When it fades, it means you're from here now."

This morning I woke at six without an alarm. I stepped out onto the landing and breathed in deep, a little afraid of noticing nothing.

It still smells. I'm still not from here. I caught myself hoping it takes its time.